Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil (7 page)

“What's next?” Jake asked.

“This afternoon, we're expecting a visit from the senator,” Jackson told him. “And, sometime tonight, Jenna and Will are going to arrive, and our team will be complete.”

“What do Will and Jenna do?” Angela asked him.

“Jenna is a nurse—Irish,” Jackson said, shrugging. “And Will is an actor and a musician—an illusionist.”

“How interesting,” Angela said. “You were a profiler, working in the field. I was a cop. Jake is a musician—”

“And a computer wizard and sound engineer,” Jackson interrupted.

“Ah,” Angela murmured.

“And now we'll be getting an illusionist—and a nurse,” Whitney said. “And, then, of course, you have me. An expert with cameras, film and what's fake on them and not.”

“The nurse must be coming in case we injure ourselves—tangled up in film or sound equipment,” Jake said, grinning.

Jackson kept quiet. Angela thought that there had to be another reason they were getting a woman who was a nurse. She looked at Jackson, but he just said, “Will has gained a tremendous reputation for his illusions. He was asked to do a show for one of the paranormal TV networks. He turned it down.”

“That's interesting,” Whitney said. She looked around at them all, and then sighed. “Jackson must know this—I was working for a cable program—and I was accused of doctoring the film to create an effect. And I didn't, and I was furious that anyone would think that I had. Anyway, I probably should have just said that I did it, let everyone have a laugh and gone on to get back to work. But I didn't doctor the film, and the film wound up disappearing, and I quit before I could be fired.”

“What was on the film?” Angela asked.

“It looked like the ghost of a floating woman. We were out at one of the plantations. All kinds of companies have filmed out there, and you know, when it's going to be on television they reenact the ‘haunting.' The thing is, we hadn't even started working on the images yet—and there she was. I don't know how they think I pulled it off—minus an actress, lighting, editing equipment—but, supposedly, I did.”

“Intriguing,” Angela said, looking at Jackson.

“There's usually something that isn't what it appears, and it usually is manipulated,” Jackson said. “Anyway, Will and Whitney are our film team, Jake is a computer whiz—he can, and has, hacked into many places.” He smiled, staring at Jake.

“Nothing terrible. I just know my way around a computer,” Jake said in his defense.

When the meal ended, Jackson suggested that he and Angela go back—just in case the senator arrived early—while the others went and did some grocery shopping.

They left Jake and Whitney at the corner store on Royal, and headed on up toward Dauphine.

The house seemed just a house when they reached it again. Jackson opened the door and keyed in the alarm.

“You're still sure you want to sleep in Regina Holloway's bedroom?” Jackson asked her.

“Absolutely,” she said earnestly.

“Okay, then we'll pack up our things and move to that wing. I'll take the bedroom right next to it.”

They set about the task. As they did so, Angela realized that once the other two arrived, all six of them could be in the house—and not even run into one another unless they descended to the kitchen or the courtyard at the same time.

She had just brought her belongings into the room and stepped out onto the balcony over the courtyard when the gate swung open and a black limousine drove in.

The driver stepped out. He was tall, dark-haired and handsome. He smiled, displaying deep dimples as he opened the back door. That had to be Grable Haines.

First out was a hulk. A true hulk. She assumed it was the senator's bodyguard, Blake Conroy. He was clean-shaven bald, and muscled like a Titan.

Another tall man, lean and almost elegant looking, got out of the car. He seemed to be about thirty-five, and moved with a fluid grace—and darting eyes. More than the bodyguard, he seemed to be on the lookout. He had to be Martin DuPre, the senator's aide.

She'd seen pictures of Senator Holloway. He was a striking man, as tall as the chauffeur, solid and lean in build, with graying dark hair and a face that was well sculpted, but showing signs of strain and character. Sad in a way that she felt as if her heart tightened, watching him.

He looked up at the house and saw her looking down, and for a moment, his weathered features tensed; his hand came to his chest, tightly clenched.

She realized she was standing where his wife would have stood.

Before falling.

Before being pushed.

Before dying.

She winced, and perhaps her horror at her accidental faux pas was evident, because he smiled at her then, lifted a hand and waved.

Then Jackson stepped out from the dining room doors below to greet the senator, and she quickly stepped away from the balcony and back into the bedroom.

She paused for a minute, wondering if she might feel anything of the woman who had lived here so briefly.

But there was nothing, and so she started to leave the room. And then, as she did so, she thought that she felt something. A touch on her cheek. A gentle touch. Something so light it might have been imagined.

“Regina?” she said softly.

But again, there was nothing. And so she hurried down the stairs, anxious to meet the senator—and the men who followed behind him.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Crow. You know, I'm grateful to Adam Harrison for setting up this team.” Age became Senator Holloway. He was barely forty but looked more like fifty—a good fifty. His graying hair was left alone to gray. He had good teeth when he tried to offer a smile, and his handshake was firm.

“We're here to do everything that we can,” Jackson assured him.

He turned. Angela, a little breathless, had come out the doors to stand behind him and to his side.

“Miss Hawkins?” the senator asked, offering a hand.

“Yes, I'm Angela,” she said. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. And I'm so sorry. I saw the way that you looked up at me, and—”

“Not to worry,” David Holloway told her. His smile was poignant. “I thought I saw an angel standing there for a minute.
I understand you're here to investigate, and that's where you need to be in order to investigate.”

“Senator Holloway, you did find your wife, right?” Jackson asked him.

Holloway looked over at Jackson. “You know that, of course. You've read the police reports.”

“I'm sorry. I need you to go over everything again. With me,” Jackson said.

“Why don't we go inside,” Angela suggested. She looked at the senator steadily. “Regina had an amazing talent as a decorator and homemaker. The house was coming along beautifully.”

“Yes, she was talented, wasn't she?” the senator said. He looked up at the house for a minute, as if he wanted to refuse to go in. But he said, “I like the kitchen.”

“We'll go hang around the kitchen table then,” Angela said.

“Let me introduce everyone and make sure I've got it right, but even without files…” Jackson said, smiling. “I'm Jackson Crow, and this is Angela Hawkins. You are Blake Conroy, bodyguard, right?” He said to the massive bald man. He didn't think that a man with so much bulk—even muscled bulk—might have scaled walls. “And, Martin DuPre,” he said, shaking the man's hand. “We may be calling on you frequently, Martin.” DuPre's Armani suit couldn't conceal his litheness. And he stood close to the senator, a protective barrier, despite the hulky bodyguard nearby. “And Grable Haines, you are responsible for getting everyone everywhere, right?”

“I go where the senator tells me,” Haines said. “That's my job to serve Senator Holloway's needs.”

“Let's go in and talk for a few minutes,” Jackson said. He
wanted to split them up. As they went through the courtyard doors, he said, “Senator, would you take a walk with Angela and tell her everything that you did the night you found Regina?”

Holloway's mouth was grim, but he nodded.

“Senator?” Angela said softly.

It was evident that she had struck a sympathetic chord with the man. They might not get new evidence today, but at least he could see the dynamics between the men who served Senator Holloway, and perhaps get a better sense of the man who had believed so fully in his wife that he would not accept a verdict of suicide.

Angela looked back at him gravely. He nodded, and she smiled grimly. It was a good communication. He may not like her and he might well be convinced still that she was a loon, but he trusted her with talking to the man; she knew it.

Maybe they were becoming something of a team.

“Did you come in through the front door that day?” Angela asked Senator Holloway. “Forgive me if I ask you to repeat too much. I know this is hard.”

“Yes,” he said. While Jackson had ushered the chauffeur, the bodyguard and the aide into the kitchen, she walked down the hall to the great ballroom with the senator. He stood there a minute, his eyes filled with sadness as he looked around the room. He frowned, noting the cameras and lights and screens set up, but then the frown faded and he just looked sad again as he surveyed the furniture, covered in dust cloths and shoved against the walls.

“It would have been beautiful,” he said.

“You still own it,” she reminded him.

He shook his head. “We really weren't fanciful people. We
didn't believe in ghosts, and the house had been bought and abandoned, bought and abandoned over the years…its reputation had made it a deal when we bought it.” Holloway studied her gravely. “But you dug up bones—right after you got here. I knew if I went to Adam Harrison, he'd find the right people.”

“I'm afraid the bones in the basement had nothing to do with your wife,” Angela told him. “That poor man was a victim, like many others in Madden C. Newton's circle. Newton was a predator, swooping down on the misfortunes of others.” She segued back to the present. “So you came in by the front door? Didn't your chauffeur let you off in the courtyard that day?”

He shook his head. “No, I wasn't in session. I have an office over in the CBD. I was working there, and I had Grable on call. I didn't need him to hang at my side all day, so I told him just to pay attention to his cell phone.”

There was no alibi for the chauffeur at the time Regina Holloway died.

“So you entered through the front door?”

“I used my key, and then I tapped in the code on the alarm pad.”

“The alarm was set, you're certain?”

He nodded. “At least, I think I'm certain. Yes, I'm certain. I remember hearing the little chirps that warn you to key in the code.”

“What next?”

“I called out to Regina, but she didn't answer. Obviously,” he added bitterly.

“And then you went up the stairs and through the house?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Okay, let's retrace your steps,” she said.

He walked toward the grand staircase and she followed. He traversed the hall, turned at the ell and turned again at the last ell.

Then he paused.

There was absolutely no doubt in Angela's mind that Senator David Holloway had truly loved his wife. He stood still, looking older than his years, his face a mask of grief and regret.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

He nodded and moved on. “I came to our room. I could see that she had been lying on the bed, resting. She loved this room. She was always so busy…she was industrious. That was why I wanted the house so badly. I knew she would work hard, embrace the project. And she did.”

“What happened then? Did you go downstairs looking for your wife?” Angela asked. “Did you think she might have been in the kitchen, cooking, maybe?”

He shook his head. “I saw the doors open to the balcony. It was a beautiful twilight, and I figured she had stepped out to catch the night breeze. I walked out to the balcony, and I called her name again. And then I looked down.”

Grief, poignant and fresh, had slipped into his voice. He covered his face with his hands. Angela touched him gently on the shoulder, and stood silent, waiting. Anything she might have thought of to say would have been inane.

He took a moment, and then looked at her, his features contorted with pain. “Her eyes were open,” he said, his voice ragged. “Her eyes were open. She lay on her back, her head at an awful angle, and blood was pooling beneath it. But her eyes were open, and she almost seemed to be staring at me. Or…”

“Or what?” Angela asked.

“As if she had seen something as she died. Something so horrible that she couldn't bear it. Something terrifying. And, I'm afraid I know what it was.”

Startled, Angela asked, “What?”

“A ghost.”

Confused, Angela stood still and quiet for a minute. “You said that you and your wife weren't fanciful people. That you didn't believe in ghosts,” she said.

“I didn't. Not until I owned this house.”

“But—you believe your wife saw a ghost?”

He let out a breath, staring at her. “There were places in the house she wouldn't go when I wasn't home. She said that they just made her uncomfortable. And I don't really know what I saw, but when I was in the kitchen once, I felt as if someone was watching me. I looked at the door to the basement—and there was something there. I don't know what. It seemed like a big black shadow. It was there, and then it was gone. Was it a ghost? Hell, I don't know. I do know that I felt as cold as ice, and had rivulets of fear racing up and down my spine. I told myself I was being ridiculous, but, later, that night, Regina asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said no, and reminded her that neither did she. But, then, after she died…I started to think about it again. And when she died, people looked at me as if I had to be a monster—as if I had caused her suicide. I didn't. I believe now that ghosts caused her suicide, and you people need to find out if they're real—you need to prove it for me!”

 

Jackson sat on the counter, trying to remain casual and easy while questioning the trio that continually surrounded Senator
Holloway. They'd chatted about the Saints and other local sports teams, and he learned that the hulk—Blake Conroy—had wrestled professionally. Grable Haines admitted to having done time in a juvenile detention center for petty larceny, and Martin DuPre had simply been in love with politics since he'd been a kid. “Politics and power, they go hand in hand. And the
right
people need to be in power. I'm lucky. I learn so much from Senator Holloway, it's like a miracle, a present from God,” DuPre told him.

“Everybody loves the senator,” Blake said, nodding.

“But he needs a bodyguard,” Jackson pointed out.

“He's a politician—and no wishy-washy yes-man, either. He sticks to his guns. If he ever changes his stance on something, it's because he's received new information,” Conroy said. He was drinking a soda—the regular-size bottle dwarfed by his mitts.

“Mostly, some of the really right-wing religious groups are against him,” DuPre told him.

“I heard about a few earlier,” Jackson said. “The Aryans and the Church of Christ Arisen.”

“The Aryans are assholes,” Grable said.

“Freedom of speech in this country—nothing we can do about them,” DuPre reminded him.

“Yeah, well, thank God they don't have much of a hold here, not in New Orleans,” Blake said. He slammed a fist against his palm. “They are neo-Nazis at their worst. Of course, it would be illegal to euthanize anyone with
impure
blood, so they use words as weapons. And they do it well. If God had wanted us to be all one race, we would have come that way, they say. God had separations in color for a reason.”

“Um—we come as one single race at the beginning, as far as I understand anthropology,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, go figure,” DuPre said. “Thing is, the senator, he's
always
politically correct. No matter what those—” he stopped for a moment, glancing at Grable “—
assholes
do, the senator is calm and soft-spoken, just holding his own.”

“What about the Church of Christ Arisen?” Jackson asked.

“Well, now, they're just really weird,” Grable told him. “They have some secret rituals, like the Masonic Lodge.”

“Don't compare them to Masons!” Blake protested. “My dad was a Mason. And a Shriner. Those guys got together and supported kids in hospitals. Don't even compare.”

“Well, you have to be a member of the church to attend their meetings. There's a bishop, name's Richard Gull,” Blake told him. “And there's a high council, with five members. They're protected by law, but I don't think they should be.”

“Hey, there's an enormous church in this country where people worship
aliens,
for God's sake,” DuPre put in. “It's a free country, with separation of church and state.”

“You can have all the laws in the world—and that don't stop the Santeria groups from practicing animal sacrifice,” Blake said.

“Or voodoo priestesses from torturing snakes!” Grable asserted, shuddering as he made a face.

“You feeling sorry for the priestess or the snake?” Blake asked him, grinning.

“Well, anyway, can you all tell me about the day Regina Holloway died?” Jackson asked. They'd been talking, the three of them, easily, coworkers who might not have a lot in common, except for their love for their boss.

But they sobered and went silent at the question.

“Should have been a good day,” Grable said, shaking his head. “I was off most of the day. I gambled at the casino and won. Then the senator called me, and I picked him up and dropped him off. Wasn't half an hour later that I got the call about Regina. I got back here, but…by then, the coroner's office had been called in, cops and yellow tape were everywhere, and the senator was in the entertainment room, with DuPre.”

Martin DuPre sighed softly. “It was horrible. Senator Holloway cried. Sobbed. I had to get him away from people.”

“Why weren't you with him?” Jackson asked Blake. “Sorry— I mean, you are his bodyguard.”

He shook his head. “He was just working in his office in the CBD that day. Going in and coming out. He said that he didn't need me.”

“So where were you all day, Mr. Conroy?” Jackson asked.

“At home. I don't have much time to call my own, and it was like a picnic! I have a place uptown and I just worked out all day. But I came when I got the call, too. DuPre let me know what was going on, and I got here as fast as I could. I felt helpless as a baby, though. Never saw anything like the senator,” Blake said. “The next week, it was like he didn't care if he died himself. I was working hard then, I'll tell you. Running after him, keeping up with him,” the bodyguard said. “He'd start working, he'd want to walk. He'd start working again, he'd want coffee, he'd need something at the apartment—he was all over the place.”

“Mr. DuPre?” Jackson asked. “Where were you that day?”

“Me? I was at the office most of the day. I was going to come back here with the senator, but he said that he didn't need
my help, he wanted to try to have a nice night with Regina,” DuPre said sadly.